Page 75 of All the Things We Buried

I spun her to face me and looked straight into her eyes. Those ocean-blue eyes. And I drowned in them, just like I always did.

She pushed me away and ran for the stairs. But I caught her by the hair and yanked her back toward me. Her foot slipped. Her head hit the edge of the staircase with a soft thud.

“Fuck,” I said, breath catching.

Kill.

The voice came, low and cold.

But not her. Never her.

Blood.

I never wanted her blood.

My eyes rolled back, just like they always did when the clock struck 3:18 a.m. The tick of it echoed like a trigger in my brain. Drool slipped from the corner of my mouth as I carried her limp body up the stairs.

But before I reached the top step, my knees buckled. We collapsed together onto the floor.

Her eyes flew open. She screamed.

I crawled toward her, my limbs jerking like I was broken. Maybe I was.

She tried to drag herself away, her nails scraping the wood, but I caught her by the ankle and yanked her back to me.

She fought, kicking, squirming beneath me, but I pinned her down. Her wrists were in one of my hands, pressed above her head. My spit dripped onto her parted lips. She gasped.

With my free hand, I cupped her cheek, gently. My thumb swept over her mouth, smearing the drool away.

“Want some?”

I pressed my thumb to the curve of her lips. Another drop slid down. She hesitated, then licked it.

That was all it took. The grip she had on herself let go.

A heat bloomed between us, spreading like something cursed. She pulled me down to her. Our mouths crashed together, and I drowned in the taste of her. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed. Shivers rippled down my spine.

I had waited two years for this.

Two years of silence. Of distance. Of fucking restraint. And now, her skin was under my hands again. Her scent, her taste—mine.

I pushed up her dress, bunched it at her hips. My fingers slid down and found her soaked, dripping, aching pussy.Ready.

I nudged her thighs apart with my knee. My cock throbbed, straining against the black denim, aching for her heat. I positioned her legs over mine, lifted her onto me, and she moved, grinding against the hardness she wanted so badly, wetness seeping into my jeans. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her breath so hot. Her body begging.

She wanted this.

But she didn’t deserve it. Not yet.

I laughed under my breath.

“You’re so fucking needy, Trouble,” I whispered, then pushed her back down onto the cold floor.

I stood, walking away.

She stayed on the floor, sitting up slowly, staring after me with eyes wide and burning. Starved.

They say that when you crave someone for so long, the longing rots into hunger. A thirst that twists your insides. And when you finally have them within reach, you’re trembling from thepressure of it, and you know you’ll tear them apart if you don’t step back.